Messages from Beyond
by a-snow-induced-headache
Summary: Gene Hunt's DI made him a promise... - First A2A fic, please read and review :


The pub door swung shut.

DI Mike Sawyer, stabbed with a shard of glass, 2010, slowly gazed around the room.

It wasn't what he had been expecting, that was for sure. Not that anyone could have expected heaven to be a pub, but all the same, he'd definitely thought that it would be somewhat… posher. As it was, the place was comfy; well furnished, if slightly worn, and looked… lived in.

Mike smiled to himself at the irony of the statement, as the friendly looking Jamaican barkeep (what had the Guv called him? Nelson?) called to him, "Alright, mon brav? Come have a drink; you've been waitin' a long time!"

The offer was a tempting one; it felt like years since the previous evening, when they'd been getting plastered in the wine bar called Luigi's, before the day from hell, when all Mike's misconceptions and lived-in lies came crashing down around him. Yes, it had been a long day, but then, discovering you were dead and had forgotten all about it for three years, and that your DCI, a grumpy Northern bastard, was actually the police force's answer to St Peter was bound to result in the need for a drink.

Mike was just about to accept Nelson's offer, when he glanced down at the brown paper package held tightly in his right hand, pressed there by the self-same grumpy DCI, held down by a promise. So, he shook his head with a rueful smile and looked eagerly around the room, replaying Hunt's instructions in his head.

"_Look, err, I know this is a lot to take on board in one day, but, could you do something for me?"_

_Mike had nodded in bewilderment, what could he possibly refuse him now?_

"_I need you to give someone something, someone… in there. But, see, I'm not sure how it works really, so if you could just take this - "_

_The brown package had been shoved into his hands, and he'd noticed a single word: "Bolly", scrawled across it in Gene's handwriting._

" – _and try and give it to… Alex Drake, her name's Alex Drake, she's err.. got brown, short… oh bugger, it might've grown; it's been a while, anyway she's got brown hair, and she's tall, got a thing for the off-the-shoulder tops and red shoes… I'm not really sure if she'll be there or if… if she's forgotten, but see, you'll recognise her because… she'll be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen."_

_Mike had looked up in shock at that to see his DCI gazing levelly at him. Gene Hunt had just admitted to finding someone beautiful. Not sexy, or having nice tits… beautiful. Hunt looked down, embarrassed, but Mike grabbed his hand and shook it, forcefully, saying, "Thank you, Guv, for everything, for coming after me and stopping Keats and for taking me in, even when I was a right twat, and I promise, I'll try my best to give the package to your last DI…by all accounts, you made quite the double act."_

_Gene had nodded, gruffly, muttering his thanks, before ordering, "Get one in for me, will you?"_

_Mike had nodded, before mounting the steps and entering the pub._

Now that he was looking, really looking, he could see that it was huge, only giving the impression of being small and cosy, and just as he was beginning to think he had been given an insurmountable task… he noticed a tall woman, with shoulder-length brown hair walking over to him, holding a glass of whisky.

"Hello, I'm Alex. Have you just arrived? "

Mike gazed at her in shock. Maybe this really was Heaven.

"Y-yes, I have, but, listen, are you DI Alex Drake, formerly of Fenchurch East CID?"

It was her turn to be taken aback.

"Yes, that's me… And you are?"

"DI Mike Sawyer, formerly of Fenchurch East CID, and I've got something to give you - "

He handed her the parcel.

" – from Gene Hunt, he was my DCI too, and I suppose he…"

Mike stopped talking when it became apparent that he wasn't Drake's immediate focus, as the look of joy on her face at the mention of the Guv's name turned to astonished examining of the package, so he hurriedly excused himself, with a grin. He really was dying for a drink.

DI Mike Sawyer, stabbed with a shard of glass, 2010, drew up a stool at the bar, received a cold pint from the smiling barman and sighed contentedly. He was in a pub, had foiled a blag, and had kept his promise. Yes, that was heaven enough.


End file.
